June 14, 2027.
I told myself it was over.
Again.
Blocked Ryan’s work email.
Avoided industry events.
Threw myself into work.
Into Damien.
We were good.
Tender.
Planning a late-summer trip—just us, no distractions.
He held me every night.
Like he knew I was slipping.
But I was.
Slipping.
Then the message came—from a new number.
Ryan: It’s me. New phone. I know you blocked the old one. I get it. But I can’t stop thinking about you. About us in the car. About how you felt. Please. Just one drink. No expectations.
I stared.
Deleted it.
But the memory flooded back.
His hands.
His mouth.
The way I’d come undone.
Heat.
Shame.
I didn’t reply.
Three days later, another.
Ryan: I saw you at the design meetup last week. You looked incredible. I stayed away. But I’m not over i
